Chloroform
by Simply Storm
Summary: Sherlock is bored, Irene is evil, and John is wearing eyeliner. Oneshot.


Warnings and stuff: Mature content. Oops.

Other Heads up: this is my first fanfic...or any fic. I'm actually more of an essay writer than anything else, so i appreciate creative commons. Also, this is unbetad, so i apologize for any glaring errors.

Just in case you couldn't tell, i do not own any Sherlock characters in any reincarnation, because if I did, the show would be a lot smuttier.

Enjoy~

The world's only consulting detective lay upon the couch muttering under his breath. John noted this as he staggered into the living room, loaded under a mountain of groceries; for it meant only one thing: Bored Sherlock. In his mind, this was synonymous with Beelzebub.

"John," Sherlock whined, I'm _bored_. Entertain me."

"Don't you have a case to be working on?"

"Finished it. It was Jennifer's best friend."

"No!" John exclaimed, "the crying one? She had an alibi backed up by that girl's boyfriend! He saw her at the"—John is cut off by Sherlock.

"Library. Did you honestly find nothing wrong with that excuse John? She claimed to visit the library once every couple of days, and had just come from the library before we met with her, but what was she wearing?"

"A short black dress…" John said, carefully thinking back.

"Exactly. Not the attire one would wear when spending hours reading books—the clothes are confining and hard to breathe in. Besides, all of her clothes were a day old, as you might have observed by her lack of perfume and ripped stockings. Honestly John, you've had a girl stay over. Use your head. Think about her hair: obviously not styled or brushed. Miss Tiller was in a sexual relationship with Jennifer Corinth's Boyfriend. "

"And the evidence for the murder? She was diagnosed with cardiac arrest! I don't even know why you think there _was_ a murder." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Don't play dumb, John. What leads to sudden cardiac arrest at the age of 18, especially without a family history of heart problems?" John was silent for a second.

"Chloroform!"

"Brilliant John! Just think, these two met through their best friend, and both have a sadistic streak—as we can see from the copious bruising on many of their skin surfaces."

"Couldn't they have just broken up?"

"Yes John, but you see they weren't lying about the library. They are both fans of books: adventure books to be exact. They were both enamored by the concept of kidnap…and chloroform." John's eyes widen.

"Oh no…they're not doctors. She was tiny! They must have given her more than 9 milliliters…but not much, which is why nobody noticed. Dear Lord, why does everyone think that stuff is a toy? How did they even get their hands it?"

"Miss Tiller's father is a doctor. Calm down, it's been taken care of. What will you call this one in your blog?"

"The Case of the Imbecilic Pricks." Muttered John. Sherlock chuckled; an extremely unordinary occurrence, and John felt his heart skip a beat. He quickly dropped the groceries and covered his ears —a tactic he had come up with after Sherlock commented on how his ears blushed more than his cheeks.

"John."

"Yes Sherlock?"

"You realize that the coverage of your ears enables me pick up on your blushing one tenth of a second faster than had you not covered them? Really, it's all in your head."

To avoid Sherlock's piercing gaze, he busied himself with putting away the groceries, carefully placing objects on lower shelves for his convenience.

In the adjacent room, John could clearly hear the phone ringing.

"Sherlock, my hands are full! Would you pick up the phone for once?" After much stomping, the dark-haired man complied. John could vaguely hear the conversation taking place, which was not surprising due to the fact that Sherlock was very excited about whatever was occurring. Or at the very least, quite loud.

"Who's got you all riled up?" questioned John as he walked back into the room.

"Irene Adler will be visiting our abode. She would like to hire the two of us to find a murderer that has been attacking some men and woman at the pleasure houses she is currently running, since she apparently has no time to do it herself." John snorted at the statement about Irene's job, to which Sherlock replied,

"Don't mock the escort service, it is a noble and time-old profession."

"Sure it is Holmes." He began sipping a cup of tea he had been making himself. "I'm sure that's how you get all your sexual desires filled, if you even have them, since I doubt anyone else would help you out."

"Wrong indeed, Watson. A great number of people wish to have intercourse with me, as I am quite experienced, not to mention aesthetically pleasing. Do you not find me so, John?" John choked on the tea in his mouth and avoided answering by changing the subject in a manner he thought to be rather smooth.

"Uh…so when is Miss Adler coming, Sherlock? Why does she even need to come? Didn't she already tell you about the case?"

"I asked for her to come over, since I would so much rather to hear details in person. She should be here in about thirty-four second, if my timing is right."

"About? How is that an estimate?"

A knocking on the door cut off John's train of thought.

"Ah, right on time. Open the door for The Woman, John."

"I am not your slave, Sherlock!"

"Pity. Ah look, she seems to have let herself in. That's quite impolite, Miss Adler."

Irene Adler was surveying the room, noting a million things at once. John's flushed face…somewhat irritated, somewhat embarrassed. Sherlock's relaxed posture on the couch, the mess…

"Mr. Watson, are you wearing eyeliner?" She purred, slinking towards his short frame.

John didn't even get the time to protest—he was cut off too fast.

"Astute observation, Miss Adler. I considered it myself for a fraction of a second before recognizing the difference in the texture. What is more likely is that he wiped his eyes after handling a pen. Other options is succession of likely hood are: dirt, coal, natural tint from lack of sleep."

"Indeed." Irene plopped herself in a chair opposite from Sherlock, making sure to give him a good view of her panties as she sat down. She noted John bristle, and sit right next to Sherlock, his thigh right next to where Sherlock's head rested. Oh, how fun this would be, she thought to herself.

"I have come here out of necessity. As you already know, Mr. Holmes, I find myself running a pleasure house for both sexes, and it has been going splendidly. I have roughly 10 locations each with fifty occupants. Four of my workers have been kidnapped, and found dead. Oddly enough, each killing has been done in a different whorehouse, and all of the victims are short and light haired. "

"What is the manner in which they have been killed?"

"This is the oddest part—they are all show signs of bruising around the neck, shoulders, and hips, but there is no other sign of injury. I suspect poison, but I can't understand how it was administered, as there is never food offered, nor is there signs of struggle."

"Fascinating. I assume you want John to play the part of the whore?"

"Exactly."

"We have a deal. We'll be there at ten."

"But—" John interjected.

"Quite John. Have a nice day, Miss Adler, I'm sure you can let yourself out, John and I will be rather busy preparing him. Text me the location."

"What the hell do you mean, Sherlock? Are you implying that I act as the whore? How is that a good idea? I'm not gay! I also don't have any interest in fucking strangers in the slim hope that it may be the murderer! Also, just so you know, I don't want to throw away my life!"

"Don't worry John. Didn't you notice that the murderer was never written down as a patron? Therefore that person must have individually approached their victim, assuring them they had already been paid for. And in any case, Irene has already set up cameras in every room; she just wanted you to act the part. Really John, you mustn't be worried."

"I'm not gay! Must we ignore that part?"

"Of course you're gay, John…or Bisexual at the very least. Look at how you react to our proximity. Your face is flushed, you take quicker breaths, and you seek skin contact. I'm sure that if I reached to take your pulse, it would be dramatically increased."

"Those are all signs of rage, Holmes! I'm fucking ticked off!"

"Whatever you like. Now come, Irene will be supplying the attire, but I will be doing the makeup."

"Why the hell do you have makeup in our apartment?"

"I don't. Come now, we need to purchase some."

At ten-o-clock sharp, the two men sat in the office of Irene Adler sipping tea. John Watson was wearing a tight white shirt to show off his muscles, and tight black pants. His eyes were lightly lined with kohl, and his soft wrinkles were covered up with a light foundation.

"Incredible, John. You look simply marvelous. I would have sex with you myself—especially since you appear to be the submissive type. I bet you would love to be chained to a bed and spanked." John spat out the mouthful of tea he had been drinking.

"Dear God, woman! Can't you at least wait to declare these ridiculous statements until after I have finished swallowing? It's the bare amount of respect you need to give me!" John's ears were so red they appeared to be on fire, and out of habit he covered one of them with a free hand. He did not notice the hungry gaze Sherlock was watching him with…but Irene Adler did, and smiled in a sinister manner.

"I do believe it's time to take position John. Where are you to go?" Asked Sherlock.

"Into a hallway to await my murder." John recited mechanically. "Can we just get this over with? If so, I'll be on my way. And if I die, by the way, I leave nothing to either of you." Sherlock pouted.

"You promised me your pet bunny!"

"I lied. There is no way I'll let you use Skipper as a test subject for those things your messed up mind comes up with. Really, Holmes. I wasn't born yesterday, even though my intellect might not be on par with your own."

"I think you're very smart, John." Sherlock said quietly, noting how lovely his short roommate's eyes looked when he went as red as a tomato.

"Er…thanks…I'll…get going."

John rushed off to his hallway, not sure what would be a worse fate: murder, of Sherlock Holmes coming to the realization that John was madly in love with him. Although he was pretty sure it was the latter.

It was one in the morning, and John was tired. Plenty of paying customers had bequeathed his company, but it wasn't polite asking that he was looking for. Just as he was ready to give up and head back to Irene Adler's office, he felt a lean body press up against his back, and a black cloth tied around his eyes. Before he had a chance to shout, a gag was pressed into his mouth, and he was shoved into a small closet.

'Oh shit,' thought John. 'Irene only bugged the rooms with beds in them. I'm going to die.'

John's neck was tilted back viciously, and hands closed in around his neck. He hadn't been a soldier for nothing, however, and he wasn't planning on going down without a fight. After several minutes of mad struggling, he felt a cloth being pressed to his nose.

'Not chloroform, anything but that. These fucking retards and their fucking fantasy movies. I hope this was administered correctly'. And then John blacked out.

"John? John, can you hear me?"

Sherlock's face began to come into focus above John Watson. It was so close he could lean up and kiss his full lips, had he any muscle control.

"Am I dead, Sherlock? Another bumbling idiot used chloroform, so I must be dead."

Tested out his arm muscles, and upon finding that he had some semblance of control, he yanked Sherlock down towards him, resulting in a surprised "Ommph!" from Sherlock.

"Er…you're not dead, John. I got to you in time. How are you feeling? And would you mind letting go? I'd rather not hurt you by pulling away…or squishing you to death. You are a very small person, in case you hadn't noticed."

The 'no' with which John Watson responded with is one he still claims was due to the chloroform, but Sherlock always combats that with a declaration that it had worn off.

"Excuse me, John? Are you feeling quite alright?"

"I'm feeling fine, Sherlock. Where are we?"

"Um…" Sherlock Holmes, a man who attempted to look calm and collected at all times, looked quite flustered. "We are on a bed in one of the room in The Woman's pleasure house. Until a minute ago, I was next to said bed. I suggest you let go of me immediately John."

"Or what?" asked John, rather impetuously. Sherlock responded by drawing his face closer to his blonde roommates, until their lips were almost touching.

"Or else I will misplace all likeness of control I have had until this point." He whispered.

"No." John replied, in an equally hushed tone.

"No?"

Sherlock crashed his mouth onto John's thin pink lips, and proceeded to kiss him deeply and harshly.

"I have wanted to do this for quite some time, John. You can't imagine h—" Sherlock was immediately cut off by John's mouth reconnecting with his, and he let out a soft moan. He retaliated in full by sliding his hands slowly under the skintight shirt John wore, ripping the thin material off his body. John gasped as cold air hit his body, and Sherlock watched in fascination as his nipples hardened. Sherlock slowly ran his hand over the hard firm of John's stomach up to the hard scar tissue of his shoulder.

"You look so beautiful." He whispered, before he knelt down to kiss John's stomach, trailing his tongue up his torso towards his nipples. John let out a sharp gasp as Sherlock's mouth closed over one of his hard nubs, licking and teasing him. John looked down into Sherlock's piercing eyes, glimmering with mischief and surrendered into the overwhelming pleasure.

"Sherlock…I need…"

"What do you need, John. You have to tell me." John blushed at Sherlock's voice deepened by lust, and gasped out; "I want you to suck me!"

"It would be my pleasure to satisfy your request." Chuckled Sherlock, palming the front of John's trousers before removing them completely.

"No pants?" Questioned the detective, "I hadn't noticed before tonight."

"Irene Adler wouldn't allow it. She said something about making it easier for… Oh shit!"

"What is it John?"

"It was all a setup! Irene Adler didn't have a murderer, she was trying to get us in this position!" John was very surprised as to how calm Sherlock looked: amused even.

"Really John. I figured that out five minutes into this silly venture. Did it really take you this long?" John flushed even darker than the position he was currently in had made him blush.

"Then why did you go along with it?"

"I wanted to fuck you." Growled Sherlock, and at that he engulfed John's entire cock into his mouth. John's back arched off the bed, and he let out a loud, strangled version of Sherlock's name.

Sherlock licked from the bottom to the top of John's cock before once again engulfing it, only this time he swallowed.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock!" exclaimed John, his whole body tensing. "You need to stop, or I'm going to…"

Sherlock swallowed once more, only this time he truly was swallowing the hot spurts of come that John released.

The tall man drew himself up towards John Watson, and kissed him softly on the lips—an action John felt to be somehow more personal than the action that Sherlock had just performed.

After a few minutes silence as the two lay upon the bed, John glanced up at Sherlock.

"You know," John stated Cheekily, "You never did 'fuck me', did you?"

"Just wait 'till we get home, my dear Watson."

~End

Wheeeeee


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